


Driving Miss Trevelyan

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had an agreement. </p><p>He would protect her life–take a bullet, sip her wine, taste her food, drive her car. </p><p>In exchange, she provided him with an income, a comfortable home, a purpose that drove out the creeping song of lyrium addiction and dark nightmares–and–AND–MOST IMPORTANTLY:</p><p>She promised not to engage in lewd acts in the backseat of the Bentley.</p><p>Apparently…their agreement was up for renegotiation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driving Miss Trevelyan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabai0821](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/gifts).



They had an agreement.   


He would protect her life–take a bullet, sip her wine, taste her food, drive her car. He would be the heartbeat between her heart and her father’s assassins and the assassins of her father’s enemies–the double-edged blade of the deadly love and kinship of Gareth Trevelyan, CEO of Waking Sea Industries.

In exchange, she provided him with an income, a comfortable home, a purpose that drove out the creeping song of lyrium addiction and dark nightmares–and–AND–MOST IMPORTANTLY:

She promised not to engage in lewd acts in the backseat of the Bentley.

His hands, encased in skintight black kidskin driving gloves, tightened on the equally leather-clad steering wheel as he chanced another quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

Her head was tilted back, whiskey eyes narrowed to slits of pleasure, the apples of her dark copper cheeks shimmering with some powder, a shimmer that extended along the wings of her exposed collarbones and shoulders–he’d never found himself envying a cosmetic before, but he was having feelings about her collarbones.

She trailed a hand down the curve of her throat, continued down the centerline of her chest, and Maker help him, he watched that hand disappear into the dark valley between her breasts.

A horn blared to their left and he course-corrected with a jolt of adrenaline that fought with the arousal sending blood to the southern hemisphere. A rich, throaty laugh trickled through the speakers in the front of the sedan. She had to have left the comm channel open deliberately–the controls were on her side of the glass, and while during normal business she routinely left them open because she had few secrets he did not keep more carefully than his own, he would have expected her to want some privacy at this moment.

Apparently not. Apparently…their agreement was up for renegotiation.

He focused on taking steady, measured breaths, striving to keep his eyes focused on the road as he navigated dinner rush traffic in the Val Royeaux city center. The roads were narrow, frequently cobbled, one-way, and filled with pedestrians. It was not the place for a distracted driver.

He managed to keep his eyes on the road for the circuitous mile it took to leave the city–no further sounds filtered through the comm, and he suspected she had muted it again.

Until he pulled onto a quiet road leading northwest from the city–toward the private Dragon-age estates on their meticulous grounds. The Bentley had a fabulous suspension, but the roads were rutted from a recent rain, and still little more than country lanes. 

The first gentle dip elicited a tight gasp from the backseat. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again and nearly bit his lip in half.

Her locs spilled down her shoulder, like vines inching lovingly along the bark of a supple-limbed tree. Her plum-dark lips were parted with soft panting breaths. Her skin was smooth and shimmering and not only was her dress off-the-shoulder, he was reasonably certain it had adopted a new style: on-the-floor. His hands tightened on the steering wheel again, flexing against the desire to pull onto the shoulder and climb back there and worship her like Andraste–with his lips and his tongue and his teeth and his searching fingertips and, Maker have mercy on his spirit, with his cock if she’d let him.

He accelerated without meaning to–the Bentley hit another bump–and she gasped again, moaned, and he realized where her hands had disappeared to.

He uttered a fervent, strangled oath.

Her eyes, still barely open in watchful slits, fixed on his in the rearview mirror as she mouthed with her bitten lips– _Watch me_.

As though he could do anything else.

One of her hands made repeated forays up between the valley of her breasts, twisting and pinching her pebbled nipples, while the other worked industriously below his line of sight. He watched her, riveted by her gaze and his own desire, his skin flushed with heat as he drove lazily along the country road. 

She sighed and moaned and pursed her lips with pleasure, her lashes fluttering, and he watched her writhe and prayed that he wasn’t dreaming.

She bounced as her exploring hand increased its tempo, and he was more grateful than he could express that when she suddenly tensed and cried out, the car was rolling into the coquina-paved drive of the estate. 

He exhaled long and slow, trying to get a rein on his hammering heart. 

She sprawled lithe and indolent against the leather upholstery, still gently squeezing her breasts, as though tenderly wringing out the last of her pleasure. She was sensual and strong and yet the curve of her cheek, of her throat, was oddly vulnerable. She was so precious to him–so beloved–and he went through so many days without telling her–trying to preserve the illusion of employer and employee. 

He let the Bentley roll to an easy stop under the coachport, scanning the grounds visible from the car while he let his pulse settle. Rylen was at the front door, and gave him a curt nod, signalling all-clear. He managed a nod of his own in acknowledgment, and was glad for the tinted glass that completely obscured the back of the car.

When he glanced into the rear-view mirror again, a pair of whiskey eyes was gazing right back into his. The neckline of her dress had reappeared, rescued from the floor or whatever interdimensional space women put things when they were seducing their bodyguards in the back of luxury sedans. She had a smile that could made the Maker weep–a little crooked, a little sweet, a little sinful, a little cocky. She treated him to one, which he returned helplessly.

“We goin’ in, strawhead, or you gonna keep putting my clothes back on with your eyes?” Her voice was a little stripped of its music by the comm speaker, but he knew her rolling drawl by heart. “Or–” her smile grew an inch, “Maybe you need a minute?”  


He felt the tug on his scar as the corner of his mouth kicked up, in an unintended smirk. She laughed, loud and joyful like everything about her when she was happy, thinking she divined his meaning.

He eased from the driver’s seat, resettling his holster and the fall of his blazer to cover it, and muttered a fervent “Maybe a lifetime” under his breath.

When he opened the door for her, all chauffeur, she was put together again, her locs twined over her shoulder, her dress neatly down over her sleek muscular thighs, the scent of her arousal hidden under her usual citrus and spice.

“Miss Trevelyan,” he murmured softly, correctly, appropriately, as he offered her a gloved hand.  


She stepped from the car like a goddess descending, her hand tucked into his, the way her smile tucked into his heart. She stood beside him, close–closer than an employer to her employee. She tilted her chin slightly, her whiskey-rich eyes fixing him sidelong and speculative.

He waited–on her pleasure, on her word, on her signal.

“You know…I’m not feeling very **safe** tonight. I think maybe you’re gonna have to escort me to my room. Just in case.”  


He nodded, serious and slow. “I should probably…check under the bed. In the closets. Behind the shower curtain. …Under the sheets.” He let that set a moment. “You know. Just in case.”

Her hand squeezed his. “Just in case.”

**Author's Note:**

> Miss Trevelyan is Evelyn B Trevelyan, of Heraldry Series fame, and belongs to @mirabai0821, who kindly loans her out to me when I want to write B and Cullen plot bunnies. For more of B Trevelyan and Cullen, including a truly magnificent plot bunny-turned-plot in the form of The Lover's Appcove, and its sequel-in-spirit the 1000x1000 set, please visit @mirabai0821 on ao3 or tumblr. :)


End file.
